April 2019

Leprechaun

He sands in the sunshine,
wet and dripping,
his skin tanning,
probably with images
billowing out in his head.
Jobless, harmed, down,
you once thought he was made of plastic
for he never complains when he hurts himself.
Now you know invisible bruises stained him
forever.
They marked his brain,
tainted his will,
spotted his bravery,
soiled his strength.

Still, he sands in the sunshine,
hard-working man,
penniless, he can only counts
on you for his sustainment,
sustenance, subsistence,
the food in his plate,
the clothes on his back,
still aching – insatiably.
No violin, no pipe,
no top hat, no red beard,
no pot of shining coins,
just a sander
to work the match box
he will be buried in.